


Beyond Repair

by bravinto



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 19:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4317015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravinto/pseuds/bravinto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>People often assume that Wesley is - not emotionless, but heartless, uninvolved beyond his own interest; and he lets them, because a wise man always lets his enemies underestimate him. But they are wrong. He has a heart, and it beats, and aches, and loves, and flutters pathetically in the iron grip of his will. <i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Repair

**Author's Note:**

> this is a birthday gift fic for my friend pulvis!! <3  
> warnings for casually mentioned voyerism and stalking, maybe, because Wesley is a creep and control freak.

 The thing is, Wilson Fisk never told James Wesley his origin story. He relied on Wesley’s talent for management and his unwavering loyalty, and thought of him as a friend, but he never told. It doesn’t mean, though, that Wesley doesn’t know.

Of course, he doesn’t know all the little details of his employer’s life, but he knows most of it. He knows the essentials: Fisk killed his horrible father and is still haunted by the memories; built himself up from nothing and is proud of that. In a way, Fisk somehow projects his feelings about his father onto the city, he loves and hates it, is obsessed with it - especially Hell’s Kitchen that cooked him and baked him into what he is, a great, brutal, fierce, amazing man; and Wesley isn’t exactly sure how that miserable place could do that, but he is glad it did.

 Wesley doesn’t like New York. The dirt and the grime sit heavily on his skin and ruin his clothes; he hates the rush and noise of too many people scurrying around like ants, living their insignificant lives way too close. He travels a lot, with Fisk and alone, and from what he’s seen he likes Scandinavia best. It’s clean and quiet there, untouched lakes and paper-white snow in winter. He likes how people there respect personal space and cleanness, how things always work the way they are supposed to. He knows he could fit in easily there and live the rest of his life calmly in relative mediocrity. He also knows that for as long as he’s alive he won’t leave Fisk, and Fisk won’t leave New York, so here they are.

 Wesley knows all that because it is his job to know everything, to make things happen, to channel the tidal wave of energy that is Wilson Fisk. He knows that because it is his job to guess what Fisk needs a second before he says it, to have everything ready the right minute, to always be a step, a breath, a phone call away. He knows that because he stands close enough to the fire to burn his eyebrows; he knows Fisk, he knows Fisk’s mother, he has all the records. He also lives in the room just above Fisk’s and has a feed of all security cameras in the building on his own screen, and one of the cameras happens to be in Fisk’s bedroom.

Wesley knows it could be seen as a guilty pleasure, really, but he’s not ashamed - not for any of the multiple excuses he could easily provide (safety reasons, questionable visitors, dangerous items could be sneaked in, et cetera, et cetera), no; he just loves watching Fisk, always, but especially in his most vulnerable moments. Basically, Wesley just feels grateful he’s allowed in on that. It’s the trust he’s given that makes him go on his worst days, when nothing seems to be joyful anymore.

People often assume that Wesley is - not emotionless, but heartless, uninvolved beyond his own interest; and he lets them, because a wise man always lets his enemies underestimate him. But they are wrong. He has a heart, and it beats, and aches, and loves, and flutters pathetically in the iron grip of his will.

It flutters when he’s up in his room tonight; it’s late and he’s in his bathrobe but not in bed yet, flickering through security cameras and lingering on the one he only really cares for. He can tell Fisk is having another nightmare, thrashing around and making small helpless noises. There’s nothing Wesley wants to do more than go down there and shake him awake gently and comfort him, but Wesley isn’t good at it, not really. He always uses other means to provide comfort - things always done on time, no interruptions, no inconveniences, always the best wine, always the best food, best everything. It’s often enough, but tonight it’s glaringly, painfully not.

Instead, he puts his suit back on, waiting for Fisk to wake up. He allows himself to pace back and forth twice, then sits down on the edge of the bed. At last Fisk gasps awake, brushing sweat off his brow, panting, and sits up. Wesley gets ready: it’ll be two or three minutes before Fisk collects himself and calls for him, to get him a book, a movie, a hot meal, or just some company.

The call never comes. Wesley gets up and after a moment’s hesitation takes off his tie. He goes out into the corridor and down the stairs, his breathing even, his steps sure. He stops in front of the entrance to Fisk’s bedroom, momentarily uncertain, and contemplates knocking, but decides against it. They are way past that, and if he wants to do this right, he must be as steady as he can. He shakes doubt off his hands and enters.

Fisk is sitting on the edge of his bed, just like Wesley was a minute ago. He looks up.

“Wesley.”

“Sir,” Wesley says, coming closer, carpet muffling his steps.

Wesley stands inches away from Fisk who is looking up at him, his face open and all shaken up and sweaty from the recent nightmare.

“I thought you were asleep,” he says.

“Wilson,” Wesley replies, and it’s the right thing to say, because Fisk’s face is suddenly hot and wet, pressed against Wesley’s stomach. He pets Fisk’s head and shoulders and feels him quake with a deep pained guttural sound, like a wounded animal.

“Please, Wesley,” comes a broken whisper, “I need… please.”

“Anything,” Wesley whispers back, because he can’t find his voice. “Anything, any time.”

He kneels on the soft carpet and frames Fisk’s face in his hands.

“I need…” Fisk tries again, but he doesn’t have to, because Wesley knows like he always does.

He leans in and kisses Fisk; it feels urgent and desperate, too warm and salty. It’s something Wesley didn’t expect to enjoy so much.

 

He has never been anything but dressed up impeccably and professionally with his employer, but right now Fisk doesn’t need professional, he needs personal and close and hot and immediate. Getting naked is new. Wesley feels suddenly vulnerable, he’s not used to this, but, he thinks, he passed that threshold when he made the choice to abandon his tie. It’s all the same now. His first impulse is to fold his clothes neatly but there is no time, Fisk grabs his hand and pulls him onto the bed. His shirt stays crumpled on the floor, together with Fisk’s black pajamas.

He’s terrifyingly strong, something Wesley knows because he witnessed this strength used on others, but never before felt on himself. He is sure Fisk could break him beyond repair with his bare hands. The thought is exciting, settles heavy between his legs, where he’s already hard.

They tumble on the bed together and Fisk tugs him closer and grips him so tight it’s almost painful; he’s mindless of his strength until Wesley gasps.

“I am,” he says, “sorry, Wesley. I didn’t mean…”

He doesn’t finish because Wesley is kissing him again. Fisk is all one, body and soul, a monolith, no border between the beastly and the godly; and to Wesley, who isn’t like that at all, who keeps his spirit as far removed from the low and down to earth as possible, it feels like a revelation.

The light’s too low to see properly, and it’s a good thing, because Wesley’s control is slipping. Fisk is huge and hot beneath him, and hard against his hip. Wesley shifts to grind their cocks together, and Fisk groans in a way Wesley has only dreamt of hearing first hand, and not through his monitor’s speakers.

“What do you want?” he asks. “What do you need?”

Fisk speaks like he doesn’t want to break the kiss, his lips millimeters from Wesley’s:

“I am so tired of… ghosts. I need something alive. Something hot inside me... I want you in me.”

Wesley has to tear himself from Fisk’s hold, it seems Fisk can’t connect his request with the action it leads to; but he lets go for a moment, and Wesley can reach for a small nightstand where he knows the lube and condoms are. He knows it because he’s ordered them himself.

He warms the tube and slicks his fingers; Fisk opens up to him and he rests his head on Fisk’s knee as he is oiling and stretching him.

“Wesley…” Fisk utters, breathless, “that’ll do, I can take it. Please…”

Hurting him is not something Wesley should worry about, but he still does, so he lingers for a moment as he rolls the condom over his cock, then alligns himself and enters.

It is amazing; Fisk is all muscle, inside and outside, he wraps around Wesley and pulls at him fiercely. Wesley leans into a hot, brutal kiss, he’s lost the little control he had, his hips just move, fast and erratic on their own. Fisk clutches him in a death grip, strong enough to leave bruises, and Wesley wants more of that, he thrusts into Fisk and his inhuman force.

“Break me,” he chants, “break me, destroy me, crush me…”

He feels Fisk tighten around him and come with a shout, drawing a painful, blazing orgasm out of Wesley. For a moment he can’t see or hear, he can only feel Fisk’s heaving breath underneath him.

“Wesley,” Fisk says at last. “Wesley, are you?..”

“Yes,” he manages and lifts himself on shaking arms to pull out.

He feels weak, but Fisk holds him up. Wesley takes off the condom and throws it, aiming for the bin and missing.

“I hurt you,” Fisk says.

Wesley looks at him. He looks surprised and a little lost, but not desperate and haunted anymore. Good.

“I wanted it,” Wesley says truthfully, when his breath is down to normal.

He knows he should get tissues to clean them both, start a shower for Fisk, then throw away the condom, get dressed and leave, because he’s done what he was needed for, and now it’s time to step away and back into the borders of employer/employee dynamic, but. His arms and legs are trembling and weak, and Fisk’s warm hand runs gently over the sore spots on his bruising sides. He wants to rest, if only for a minute.

Fisk is talking about their plans for tomorrow and how Wesley might need to take a break for a day, which he won’t ever do, of course; words all fuse and fade together, till he can’t discern between them.

“Thank you, Wesley,” is the last thing he hears before he falls asleep.

 


End file.
